The Silence Before The Storm
by VHawke
Summary: Post DAII ending. Kirkwall lies on the brink of ruin and war, and its Champion is slowly buckling beneath the pressure. Though the world around them continues to plummet into chaos, her companions refuse to let Hawke give up without a fight. Perhaps there are still some things worth living for. Perhaps there is still a world fighting for.
1. Chapter 1

Hawke stared down at Meredith's corpse, emotionless. The pulse of lyrium held around them, suspended in the air by glowing red fragments of the shattered blade. The idol could do no further harm. Its lingering power fueled the magic within her, causing the hairs on her arms to stand on end. She could feel the currents of electricity racing through her heart despite her efforts to calm the adrenaline still pumping mana through her veins. Nostrils flaring and chest heaving, her face remained passive as she breathed in the choking fumes of smoke and fire, and the pungent stench of death and decay. The Knight-Commander's petrified remains cracked and smoldered – a safe sign that Kirkwall's greatest tyrant was no longer a threat.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and Hawke whipped around to meet her _comrade_ with wide, scornful eyes. He had doomed them all; and he knew it. Anders flinched and withdrew to stand between her and their companions, a line of shaken templar's at their backs. Even Knight-Captain Cullen looked somewhere between dread and disbelief.

This day, there was no celebration. There were no cries of victory, no shouts of joy or relief. The billowing clouds from the chantry ruins covered them all in shadow, choking the sky and raining ashes down upon the broken city. A chill wind whisked its way through the gallows, along with a cold, hard truth that nearly brought the mighty templar order to its knees.

Hawke could see it in their eyes: They felt the same fear.

One of the knights took a bold step forward and unsheathed his blade. It shook lightly in his hand. A few of the others began to follow suit, and Hawke turned to pin Cullen with a glare.

"Stand down, all of you!" he ordered.

They obeyed immediately. Her hand hovered just above her staff, and her companions had already taken up positions around her – ready and willing to give their lives for the woman who had already done the same for them. She was their friend. She was their leader. And they did not hesitate.

She held her chin high as another gust of wind blew past them, picking up her dirty, matted hair and tossing it wildly around her. Her mage armor gleamed in the few rays of light that dared to pierce through the rolling clouds overhead; and her eyes scanned the faces of each and every templar around them.

"Do not think for one moment to question what your eyes saw here today. Meredith was driven mad by a magic of her own volition, yet you were too blind in your prejudice _against_ magic to see it!" Her eyes met Cullen's once more. "_Magic_ is not the curse. It is simply another tool." She stood straight and pointed at the charred remains behind her. "It is _weakness_, which can be found in _all_ men! Meredith made her choice. I suggest you think carefully about yours."

Every pair of wary eyes was on her now. Cullen was watching her intently, seeming to weigh her words against all they had seen here today.

"Champion, I…"

"_Hawke_, please." She held his gaze. "I would be known by my name and not by a title which brought nothing but unrest amongst those who would think me unworthy of it."

The templar leader regarded her a moment. "…Hawke. There is…no easy way this can be resolved."

"Of that I am well aware." Her eyes were like steel. "It seems complications have forced all our hands."

"Indeed."

Hawke studied him carefully. She had already studied their escape routes. Had she known Cullen to be the sort of templar who jumped to conclusions and took perverse satisfaction in persecuting mages like some of the other did, she would have been long gone by now. But he was not. Suspicious? Yes. Harsh? Sometimes. But these were necessary traits in a knight-captain; and she'd known him a long time. He was wise with experience, and a good man. If they acted rashly, war would break out here and now. Every soul in that courtyard knew what had been set into motion could not be undone.

The Knight-Captain addressed her directly. "As it stands, I have no quarrel with you. The Rite of Annulment was Meredith's last grip for control; and while I understood her necessity to keep order… I also knew it wasn't right."

This time it was Hawke who regarded him carefully.

"You stood by the mages." He conceded, eyes intent. "But you fought for innocents. I cannot condemn you for that. As a matter of fact, were it not for the Divine's stance on the subject, I might be so bold as to put you in the Viscount's seat."

To this her eyes widened slightly. She ignored the hushed murmurs around her and the incredulous stares of some of her comrades.

"You have done this city many a great service, even _aiding_ our order in such delicate matters, despite your status…" He leveled his eyes at her. "But…the apostate," he inclined his head behind her, "will need to face the consequences for his crimes committed against the Chantry."

She turned her attention to face him fully now. It was only a moment, though, before her fellow mage tore his gaze away to stare at the stone ground beneath them. The feathers adorning his robes fell with his shoulders as he swallowed thickly under her knowing look.

"Many were there to witness this man's crime, to _hear_ him plead guilty," he continued. "I cannot delay punishment of so severe an offense."

"Of that, we can all agree." She spared a glance over her shoulder, staring into the city of smoke and ruin with glazed eyes. Her awareness of the situation began to slowly settle around her, and the weight was near to crippling. She breathed deeply.

"Knight-Captain-"

"Cullen, please," he offered a weary smile. "You called me a friend once. I would still have you see me as such."

The corner of her mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile. "Cullen. I take it we have settled you're terms?"

The Knight-Captain nodded and raised his hand. Quickly and carefully, three templars moved in behind Anders and restrained him with little effort. He did not fight back.

"Confiscate his staff and strip him of his belongings," he ordered. "Lock the prisoner up in the main hall until further instruction. Keep a full guard on him at all times."

Hawke's face remained stoic as she watched them vigilantly carry out their orders. "We must look for survivors."

"Yes, we both have much to do… And you, Guard Captain, will undoubtedly have your hands full." He turned towards Aveline, who had been silently observing the entire ordeal with the others.

"Not a single guardsman will be off duty until at least a month after this mess is cleaned up," she nodded. "Maker forbid we actually have an Exalted March on our hands…"

"I shudder to admit it, but the ripples of these events bode ill for us all." Cullen brought his eyes to the petrified statue of his former commander. "It will take a miracle to avoid a war, and even more to move on unscathed… but I understand Kirkwall has done it before."

"It will have to do it again." Hawke's fixed her tired eyes on her weary comrades. The voice that spoke did not even sound like her own. "It always does."

"Andraste give me strength." Cullen sighed to himself. "I'm going to need it."

"We all will," Aveline added, meeting Hawke's far-off expression.

Hawke simply nodded; and with that, they left – the Champion of Kirkwall and her five companions – through the iron gates of the gallows and in search of survivors of all this madness.

* * *

By nightfall the streets were empty. Piles of rubble lay scattered and strewn across Hightown, illuminated beneath the waning moon. The wind whistled through the broken pillars of stone, moaning low and sad as it swept over the ash and debris. Hawke stood alone with them, in what was left of Viscount's Way. In Kirkwall's new graveyard.

So many faces filled her mind in that moment. Faces she had known. Faces she would never see again. Grand Cleric Elthina, among them. There was a time when bitterness did not allow her to care for this place, care for Kirkwall or the woes of its people. But that time was a distant memory to her now; and the loss she felt now cut almost as deep as the loss of her mother.

Turning towards her estate, her eyes traveled up to the massive break in the stone left above the entryway from a stray boulder that had flown all the way into her main hall. Aside from the gaping hole and the damage to the floor, no other harm had been done. It was a miracle Orana and the others were unharmed.

She peered inside, to the darkness of her kitchen corridor. …It was all so silent. Everything about this place was a ghost to her now. A numb shiver wracked her body when winter's first gentle flake of snow blew upon her shoulder. Silently, she went inside.

Her movements through her Hightown estate were steady, her descent into Darktown urgent and purposeful. Clinging to shadows and soundless as the night itself, she moved with the guile of a trained assassin, stopping only to lift the wooden door lying deep within the reaches of Kirkwall's under city – the secret passageway to the gallows.

Staring helplessly into the darkness, a shuddering breath fell from her lips.

"Maker forgive me."

* * *

**A/N:** _:) The support and feedback I got from my first story has inspired me.  
It's been some time; but I'm back for round two. _


	2. Chapter 2

The foul underground air was almost a blessing. It seemed like the smell of death had burned itself a place in her memory – hot and acrid despite the chilling bite of winter. Hawke breathed in the filth and grime with bitter desperation. What she wouldn't give to erase the last few days from her mind.

She made her way through the dank passageway, urging her pace to increase. Her footsteps were light, her eyes glazed and distant as she followed each and every step by memory. Voices accompanied her, unbidden, flashes of color and recollections of happier times that weaved their way in between the horrors recently carved into her subconscious. She shoved them all away as she squinted her eyes in the darkness, reaching for the small wooden ladder. She climbed the first two legs and lifted her hand to feel for the latch of the hidden door. When her fingers brushed against the rough metal the _thud_ of several footsteps sounded overhead, and she froze.

The passing seconds felt like an eternity, sitting there alone in the dark, waiting for silence. The floor shifted and creaked with every step. She tried to count them, tried to focus on the feel of the wood or the ache in her neck – anything to distract from the deafening sound of the blackness around her. It forced its way into her head, echoing more whispers of doubt and reason. Maker only knows what the templars would do if they caught her here. She could hardly believe – nor come close to understanding – what exactly she was doing.

Seeking the truth, Hawke reminded herself.

She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly. But her mind was betraying its own thoughts. She knew the truth. Deep down she knew exactly what she would find, and what he would say. Anders had no grasp of shame. …If he had anything left at all.

She swallowed the bitter, angry lump in her throat as she battled against her wavering determination. Every moment she lingered was another guarantee that her logic and sense would win out in the end. And for reasons beyond her imagining, for once, she did not want it to. The echoes in her mind grew louder, turning to screams of rage and betrayal. And she harnessed it. Brows furrowed, she lifted her gaze above her, and her grip tightened around the cold iron handle.

Amidst the darkness of the tower hall, she peaked out from beneath a seemingly plain square of stone floor. The way was clear. Prepared though she was, he was sure to be heavily guarded.

Renewed purpose fueled her into action.

Right.

Left.

Right at the end of the corridor.

Her agile steps came to a halt as she pressed against the wall and peaked around the granite corner. She eyed the guard with intense scrutiny. Night watch never expects to see a lot of action. That, and the weight in his steps revealed that this templar lacked focus – a tired mind far from their duties.

Of course, she realized with a pang in her chest, they would all be tired.

Reaching around her back, she quietly lifted the leather flap of her satchel. Sleeping powder would not alert any nearby templars like a burst of her magic would surely have done. The poor fool never saw it coming.

A flash of smoke, a strangled cough, and Hawke was sprinting forward. With great care and effort, she caught the swaying mass of armor – relieved to find it was a woman inside – and lowered it to the ground. Breathing heavy, controlled breaths, her eyes darted once in both directions of the hallway before she continued onward. The cells on the main floor were not far…

Damn. _Four_ guards?

…She thought there'd be more.

She worked her bottom lip between her teeth as she studied them and peered back down the hall. Tentatively, she reached back into her satchel once more. Their ranks had grown so thin after… what happened. Cullen must have trusted – or prayed – that no one would pull a foolish stunt like this. That thought only brought more shame and disquiet to her already disquieted soul.

She would never forgive him for this.

Deciding to err on the side of caution, she threw three grenades this time – two sleeping and one paralysis. Prepared though she was, she would not be able to catch four templars before they hit the ground. When the final guard fell to his knees, the nimble mage took to a sprint, her petite frame soundless as the night itself.

Skidding to a halt beside the one furthest away from her, she reached around his waist to find the key strapped to his belt and made great haste in double-checking her surroundings before turning her attention to the barred iron door. The gasp of surprise did nothing to distract her.

"Hawke? Wh-"

"Not another word, Anders." Although she was whispering, she was sure he could hear the threat and contempt in her voice, seeing him recoil in her peripherals.

The squeal of the open cell made her cringe, but she shut it quickly and leaned down to hastily fasten the key back to the fallen templar. She stood and grabbed the large pale hand of her fellow mage and yanked him back down the hallway.

Three…

Two…

One more step.

There was a hollow tap against the well-blended square of tiles, and she bent forward to open it when she heard a shout in the distance.

She turned her intense gaze to the man at her left. He knew the drill.

Five unconscious templars and an empty cell. She had been careful, but the mystery would take little brainpower to solve. Fortunately for her, Anders was infamous for his puzzling circle escapes. The templars would surely come for answers though…

They made it back in a matter of minutes. Hoisting herself up out of the underground tunnel, her eyes swept over the empty dirt roads of Darktown with growing awareness. When the adrenaline began to fade, her suspended reality too came slowly crashing in around her with every passing second. The soft click of the trap door sounded behind her, and when Anders spoke, something inside her snapped.

"So where are we going-"

Before he could finish, Hawke rushed forward, gripping the edge of his coat and slamming him back against the stone wall. "Not _we_, Anders." Before he could react the tip of her hidden dagger was pressed hard into his neck, piercing the skin when he swallowed the thick lump in his throat. "Just you."

He stared down at her and opened his mouth to speak, but the pressure at his neck silenced him.

"One hundred and four." Her voice was low and menacing. "Twenty eight still missing. Fifty-three bodies pulled from the rubble... Fifty-one strewn across the gallows." She pressed deeper. "Templars, mages, children… I should _gut_ you just like you wanted me to."

The blade punctured his flesh and he grimaced against the pain. "So why _didn't_ you?"

"_Why didn't I_?" she shouted. She stared up at him and let out a bitter chuckle. "Because it would've been too easy." Her gaze grew hard. "Even tranquility would have been too merciful."

His eyes searched hers. "You knew full well they were going to kill me."

Her eyes narrowed. "Indeed, this would have been much easier if I'd just arrived to find an _empty cell_!"

His hands gripped her forearms suddenly, and he pulled her to him, ignoring the blade at his throat and crushing his lips onto hers.

Her eyes squeezed shut, for the briefest of moments, before she shoved him hard and wrenched away from him. She slapped him, and tears sprang to life in her wild, defiant eyes. But she did not allow them to fall.

She turned away from him then, and immediately his hand went to his throat. She could feel the shift in the atmosphere from his healing magic, willing her own gathering mana to disperse. The small blade shook lightly in her white-knuckle grip, her eyes blinded by rage.

"Hawke-"

"_Go_!" She turned to meet his gaze, a storm of emotions in her eyes. "I never want to see you again."

He opened his mouth to protest again, to fight – something he didn't know how _not_ to do – but she tore her eyes from his before he could. If he had, she just might have killed him.

Wordlessly, she made her way back towards the stairs leading to her Hightown cellar. She did not spare him another glance. It was just as she feared – he _knew_ what he had done. He knew, and he did not care.

She just needed to know…why.

Her footsteps slowed, and she drew in a shuddering breath before placing a hand over her lips. She let her anger get the better of her. She was too careless – got too carried away… It was too much to hope that they could just talk it out and…what, he'd apologize and everything would be okay? Was there even anything left in him apart from Justice and hatred? More importantly…

…Would he do it again?

The fleeting sound of his disappearing footsteps resounded like a terrible thunder in her ears. All those people… And he didn't even hesitate. She turned around suddenly and was met only with the flickering darkness of Darktown's lonely streets.

Maker's breath, what had she done?

Disgust filled her like bile in her throat. Her muscles trembled as she reached her cellar, and she leaned against the wooden door for support. With a shaken breath she slid to the ground, running her fingers into her hair and raking them over her scalp.

She could still catch him. Maybe she could go back, find the Templars… No.

Or perhaps Varric and the others… No, that would take too long.

Maybe if she left now she could confront him on her own, and…

_No_.

It was done. There was no going back now. Anders' fate was in his own hands. She half assured herself he would get caught on his way out of the city, or that he would freeze to death before he reached Sundermount. She breathed deeply and stood, trying hard to force a calmness into her lungs and heart. But nothing helped the ache, or the weight now crushing her shoulders.

"It is done," she whispered, and made her way back through the darkness of her home and up the stairs. With a heavy sigh, she opened her bedroom door.

"Out for some air?"

Hawke spun around with frantic eyes.

"I don't blame you. Maker knows we've had our work cut out for us. …I'm sorry I couldn't stop by sooner."

"Aveline…" Hawke sighed, forcing a smile and attempting to regain a fragment of her composure. "Don't apologize. We both know how much this city needs its guard-captain right now."

"And its Champion." Aveline returned the gesture, eyes staring into hers. She leaned against the edge of Hawke's desk. "I stopped by during patrol to check in on you. Orana let me in, seemed concerned herself that she didn't know where you were…"

Hawke simply nodded and turned to the notes on her desk. "I'm sorry to have kept you."

"I understand Bodhan and his boy have moved on from here."

"They have."

Hawke could feel the gaze piercing the side of her head. Her heart was pounding, and her fingers were shaking. She reached out to sift through the scattered paperwork, eyes skimming over the blotched lines of ink, distant and unfocused. After searching for nothing, she came upon an excerpt from Anders' manifesto, and she dropped the pages suddenly. She jumped when she felt the weight of an armored hand rest atop hers.

"Hawke." She squeezed gently. "Are you doing all right?"

She attempted to smile, ready to shrug off the concern. But when she turned, all she could do was notice the ash, blood, and grime that coated her friend's armor. …The Captain of the Guard. She met Aveline's eyes, and vaguely wondered if they were all that was left holding this city together. The pain that finished tearing its way through her heart was unbearable. "Nothing will be the same after this," she found herself saying, her voice barely above a whisper.

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a statement that demanded a response. Her words had more meanings then she could count; but Aveline's gaze locked with hers, and an understanding passed between them. No, she realized, as the weight finally settled in around her – nothing would ever be the same after this.  
And no, she wasn't all right.

Hawke drew in a shallow breath and swallowed the lump in her throat. Wordlessly, she moved over to the window, eyes staring out at nothing. The snow was falling steadily now, blanketing Kirkwall in a cold silence. It fell over the rubble, over the broken bricks and charred stone, and covered it all up in a rather beautiful shade of white. Aveline walked the few paces to stand beside her.

"…Can I confide something in you, Guard Captain?"

"Anything," she said.

A sad smile graced Hawke's lips. "I actually wanted to be Viscount."

Aveline's turned to face her fully. "The _templars_ wanted you to be Viscount, Hawke. That alone speaks my own opinion louder than I ever could."

Her gaze remained anchored outside. "Cullen didn't force the issue. We both knew it needn't be said why."

"And still you've done more for them as a mage with a conscience than you could have ever done as a Viscount with a title." She put her hand on Hawke's shoulder. "Ten years. Doing more than anyone else to make this a better city – fighting against greed, power, and corruption-"

"And it will never be good enough." Her voice was quiet, but her words were silencing. She turned to finally meet Aveline's eyes; but she had no response. Hawke sighed and stared back out into the streets. The guilt and distress that had been gnawing away at her insides had subsided somewhat, slowly replaced by an emptiness she couldn't begin to understand.

She messed up. Too much this time. She was always too late to save the ones she loved; and now so many people had been lost, all to a plot hatched right under her nose. And she allowed herself to be blinded.

There was no escaping what was to come.

Her gaze fell to her hands, and she could only imagine cold iron clasped around her wrists, could see the shackles binding her to the stones of this Maker-forsaken void that was her life. She was one with Kirkwall. 'The city of chains.'

In that moment, she knew she would die here.

Aveline's hand gently tightened on her shoulder.

"Listen Hawke. Whatever part of myself I left behind at Ostagar, I never imagined I would have to find it again. I don't know what it is we're up against this time, but it isn't darkspawn." She turned her to force eye contact between them. "Apostate or not, you are my friend; and a damn good example of a human being. And you are _not_ alone," she assured her. "Remember that."

Hawke nodded, distant and meek – focusing her attention back outside her window. "We should both get some rest," she said."

Aveline removed her hand and sighed. "I'll be by tomorrow. …Good night, Hawke."  
She quietly shut the bedroom door behind her.

Several moments of silence followed, Hawke standing motionless. A shaken breath passed through her parted lips as she stared out her window. The small cloud of moisture fogged the glass, and she shivered before leaning against the wall for support. The sun was peaking just above the horizon.

…Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, being Tranquil. If she turned herself in, took the blame for everything… Maybe they'd consider giving her a lighter sentence.  
Maybe then she'd finally get a descent night's sleep for once.

Her eyes drifted around her room, as if attempting to find a memory – some shred of hope or happiness to grasp on to… Sebastian and Fenris were gone, and now Anders… Isabella was sure to follow soon. What remained of Kirkwall…  
When her gaze landed on her desk again, she stared at the scattered pieces of parchment, at the scrawled pleas and requests. For a long time she stared at them – flashes of guilt, anger, and apathy warring silently in her mind.

_'It will never be good enough.'_

The building screams caught in her throat. Tears began to shine in her eyes.

Was there even anything left for her?

Wordlessly, she sat at her desk and reached for a clean piece of parchment. She dipped her pen into the half-empty inkbottle, and began to write. The letter was addressed to Orana – enclosed in an envelope with her deed to the estate. A choked sob broke through her defenses, and she inhaled and exhaled deeply, fighting to control her breathing as she stamped the liquid wax with her seal.

Everything hurt.

And she was tired of hurting.

Let the templars come. At the very least, she had one more honest gift to give to someone who truly deserved it. The young elf would find it here, on her desk, after she was gone. They would be here soon; and she would not fight back.

She was tired of fighting.

Let Kirkwall take her sooner, rather than later.

Let them come.

Her bedroom door creaked open behind her, and Hawke turned around with empty, tear-stained eyes.

But she wasn't expecting to see _him_ again.

His robes were tattered, his breathing frantic as he watched her, eyes searching hers as she stared back at him in mild disbelief. The only movement came from the rise and fall of his shoulders, and a moment passed in silence before he found his voice.

"…Why?" he called out, wavering slightly.

Hawke pushed herself up from her desk, but did not respond. She was too tired to think. Too tired to feel anything anymore.

"Tell me why," he pleaded. "The templars will know you helped me escape… They'll make you _tranquil_!" He stepped towards her. "_Why_ did you do it?"

"It doesn't matter anymore." Her voice was hollow. Any fight in her was gone. "I expect they'll be here any moment now. So I suggest you leave, while you still have the chance."

Her unchanging stare seemed to spur the fire in him that refused to die out. "You can't just stay here and let them take you." His tone was low and serious. "I won't let you take the punishment for my crimes."

"And I won't let you stop me." Her eyes narrowed as she stared him down, unmoving. "_Please_. Do not stop me."

His eyes searched hers before widening slightly. A fleeting emotion flickered in his gaze before it dropped to the ground. When he looked up again, Hawke thought she had never seen him so sad. Beneath his breath he muttered something she couldn't quite discern.

"Wh-"

"I'm sorry Hawke…"

And she felt the crackling sensation of magic before meeting the cold, welcoming darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

"What do you mean gone?"

The Knight-Captain's mouth drew into a thin line. It was painfully clear to Varric then – judging by the small army of templars behind him – that even when things could not find a way to get any worse, they did. Always. "I mean _gone_. Disappeared. Vanished. And none of my _five_ unconscious templars saw a thing."

Varric thoughtfully rubbed his temple and let loose an exasperated sigh. "Listen templar, humans don't just 'vanish.'" He skittered his fingers across the air. "Dwarves, I could understand misplacing – but not humans. And even if I knew where he-"

"_Both_ of them," Cullen corrected. His eyes narrowed. "The Champion and the apostate are _both_ gone. And I _will_ have answers."

Varric met the templar's eyes with a mixture of irritation and hesitance before exchanging glances with Aveline. Behind them, Orana stood at the doorway to Hawke's empty estate – a crinkled note in her tiny hands, dried tearstains on her face, and a gloomy mabari at her side.

Aveline stepped forward. "Cullen-"

"It's Knight-_Commander_ now." He faced them both with a furrowed brow, his jaw set firm. "And I will _not_ be trifled with. You and your allies will get to the bottom of this, by whatever means necessary, or I will see to it that _mine _do." He waved a command to the soldiers at his back and turned to leave with them, pausing briefly with his eyes ahead. "And do not expect me to show the same leniency when the apostates are tried for their crimes."

A moment of silence passed as the order of templars marched through Hightown. A cold wind whisked through the courtyard, and Varric had to suppress the chill that shook his entire frame. He rolled his shoulders and watched the last of the armored thugs disappear around the corner with a slight curl to his lip.

"Looks like someone's been promoted."

"He has reason to be angry." Aveline commented beside him, watching them leave with distant eyes.

Varric's voice was soft, his eyes calculating. "…Have we searched the obvious places yet?"

"All of them."

He turned to walk back towards Hawke's estate, an outstretched hand beckoning the silent elf forward. "And there were no signs of struggle or resistance?"

"None."

He sighed heavily. "And all we have is this…"

Varric gently took the letter from Orana and scanned the lines of the parchment for what must have been the fiftieth time. None of it made sense. He'd heard it first when the elven servant came bursting in to the Hanged Man at ungodly hours of the morning – the deed to the estate in one hand and a letter acknowledging Hawke's disappearance in the other. And that was all they had – a few vague sentences and two missing comrades. There were no hints or clues as to _where_ she was going, and no mention of Anders. But he was gone. And so was she.

Aveline faced him suddenly. "Do you think it's a forgery?"

Varric shook his head. "It's her handwriting; but something's not right. There's more to it..."

"What else is there?" Aveline asked. She visibly shivered when another gust of icy wind whipped through the vacant streets around them.

His gaze rose up to meet hers. "…Hawke didn't go willingly."

"You believe Anders found another way to force her?"

He bit back the bitter laugh in his throat. "Forgive me for jumping to conclusions, but I wouldn't put anything past Blondie at this point."

Aveline stifled her scoff. "You do have a point… But you should have seen her last night. I want to believe she had nothing to hide, Varric, but even you have to admit that something's not right about this."

"Oh, I _know_ something's not right..." Varric's eyes drifted over the inked lines in his hand and his voice grew quiet. "Hawke would sacrifice herself a hundred times over before she pulled a selfish stunt like this."

"…I know."

Varric watched as her usually calm and collected gaze fell to stare at the frost covered stones beneath them - troubled. Scared. The only sounds in that moment were those of the echoing winds, and of the whipping wrinkle of parchment against them. First choir boy, then Fenris, and now this... He tightened his grip. Intentional or not – Hawke was missing; and she would have scoured all of Thedas for any one of them, until her dying breath.

"Daisy and Rivaini should be back at my place. Get them and meet me back here in one hour."

Aveline faced him immediately. "Where are you going?"

He met her raised brow with his trademark grin. "I'm going to collect on some favors. And then I'm going to call on an old friend."

"Vague as always," she sighed. But the hope was visible in her amused eyes. "All right Varric. One hour."

"Guard Captain," he nodded towards her when she turned and left. Straightening himself and clearing his throat, Varric put on a sheepish and charming smile. "Orana, dear, would you mind too terribly if we, uh… used your house?"

The elf's eyes went wide, and a ghost of a smile graced the petite contours of her tear-stained face. "N-no. Not at all."

His smile was genuine. "Thank you."

* * *

Nearly two days had passed since leaving Kirkwall. Through ice, wind, and rain they had traveled – starved and sleep-deprived. "Travel," of course, meant he on foot and Hawke slung over his shoulder like an armored sack of flour. Whatever force kept him going at this point, it was deeper than he could fathom.

He still couldn't believe what he was doing.

Anders squinted his eyes against the battering sleet, peering through the ebbing glow fogging his vision. Small clouds of breath fell in bursts from his lips, leaving a trace of warmth against his skin and reminding him that he was still alive. The dull thump in his chest was hardly a reassurance anymore.

'_You should be finding shelter.' _

Adjusting the weight on his shoulders, Anders huffed with exhaustion and irritation as he set his pace. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

'_Wasting both time and precious energy on this lump of flesh you carry.'_

He grit his teeth against the shivers that wracked his frame. What he wouldn't give for a cloak, or a small ration of food supplies. Or someone to talk to. He didn't usually speak to Justice – himself – out loud. But it wasn't as if anyone were nearby to question his sanity at the moment. For all he knew, he was probably close to losing it anyway.

"This '_lump of flesh_' on my back happens to be the reason I'm alive." He spared a glance at his shoulder. Her face was hidden, but he could still feel shallow movement from her ribcage. A light dusting of ice now covered her exposed skin. The sense of urgency quickened his pace; and he spotted a dark hollow embedded in a distant rock wall.

The cave ran deeper than he would have liked. But it would have to do. It took nearly all his strength to keep from collapsing when he knelt against the hard stone floor. With great effort and care, he rolled Hawke from his shoulders and laid her gently off to the side of their minimal sanctuary, scanning the shadows as fire sprang to life in his hands.

He stood slowly, rubbing warmth back into his numb, reddened fingers. The angle of the cave prevented most of the winds from breaking through the white wall at his back. What little firelight he produced flickered and danced at the edges of the darkness before him. A breeze blew past, brushing loose strands of his hair against his flushed cheeks before disappearing in a low echoing cry that faded into the nothingness. Anders chuckled lightly.

One glyph at a time he began securing their temporary hideout, going through the motions with bittersweet nostalgia. Ferelden winters were a lot colder, and a lot less forgiving – that much he remembered. He'd almost started to forget what it was like, before Kirkwall. Not that he was living a life of luxury in Darktown. Some would say that place was worse than the wilderness. But after ten years… how could it _not_ start to feel like home?

He turned to look down at the unconscious girl lying at his feet. From where he stood she looked so small. How many years had he spent running? Whether from templars or Wardens, how many years have been spent dodging, grasping for a shred of freedom? Nothing had ever come close to feeling like home. Not until he met her. Glancing around the cave once more he could only wonder whether it was cruel irony or divine retribution that left him where he was now. Probably both.

He drew his eyes back towards the shadows when the sound of stirring rubble caught his ears. Over the howling wind he honed his senses, strengthening the ward separating them from who knows what. Spiders. Drakes. Walking skeletons or undead corpses. At this point he was near to giddy at the thought of fighting something that wasn't a templar.

'_You must devise a course of action.' _

Anders sighed heavily. Kneeling beside Hawke, he concentrated more mana into his flames and held it at a polite distance between them. It was probably best not to advertise their position even more by talking aloud again. He was not currently in the mood to argue with himself anyway. While it was true that Justice's thoughts were his own, it became easy over time to differentiate between which thoughts rang louder and more intrusive in his mind.

His gaze fell to the floor with the weight of the unanswered statement. What _would_ he do? He hadn't planned anything past Kirkwall. He hadn't planned to make it out alive.

But he did.

Here he sat – a free man. A wanted apostate. …A murderer with a hostage. He breathed in deeply through steady lungs. He could have fled to Tevinter. He could have rallied fellow mages to fight for his cause and scorched templars to his hearts content. He could have done anything with his freedom.

But he didn't.

"Why?"

'_She wanted to stay behind – to die for her own cause. You should have let her be.'_

But he couldn't.

He stared down at her, wishing she would answer, and yet grateful that she didn't. She'd probably try to electrocute him when she finally woke up anyway. Whether it was a good or bad thing it was taking so long for her to do so, he wasn't sure. He hadn't meant to knock her out for this long…

His brow furrowed as he knelt over her, a cautious hand passing over her face. She was so still. The rise and fall of her chest was so subtle, it looked as though she was not breathing at all.

'_There are dangers lurking in the shadows.' _

The skittering sounds growing louder in the darkened depths did nothing to distract him. Firmly he grasped her shoulder and shook her, gently at first.

"Hawke…"

'_They are drawing nearer.' _

Anders peered down at her face through narrowed eyes, motionless.

"Spiders are the least of my worries."

The first one appeared faster than he had anticipated, crashing into the magical barrier in a bright flash of yellow and white. Anders jumped up instantly, taking a defensive stance in front of Hawke and met eyes with the injured creature.

The spider hissed, it's charred limbs singed and steaming from the burning effects of the glyph. Others appeared around it – seven total, by his count. His eyes took on a darker hue as he stared them down. Two smaller ones launched at his legs, their fangs open and dripping with toxins. He dodged them with great care and effort, kicking one to the side with the tip of his boot. With as little supplies as they had, being poisoned was one of many things he preferred to avoid.

For a third time he reached for his staff and cursed. Of all the things he could have procured for him – _either_ of them – they did not have any weapons. Fire erupted from his palms as the injured spider leapt for his chest. The flames spread in an arc, ensnaring most of them and causing them to hiss and screech as they burned. Anders eyes darted to his left, where one had evaded his heat wave and was headed towards Hawke.

"Oh no you don't."

The skin of his right hand immediately flashed from bright orange to a cool and chilling blue as he blasted the spider with ice, freezing it solid. While the remainder of them continued to burn, Anders approached the frozen block and brought his heel down upon the top. When it shattered, he looked around in all directions to be sure nothing else had been alerted to their battle.

The howling winds were all he could hear. Anders breathed a sigh of relief. They were lucky; but they were also completely exposed. Perhaps a nearby town might have items or weapons they could trade for. He looked down at both of them and shook his head. Or maybe something they could steal. His gaze hardened. Anything to survive.

With renewed determination, he disposed of whatever remnants the spiders left behind and resealed their barrier. When he finished, he gathered what he could to keep a small fire going between them. His brows furrowed as his gaze drifted towards Hawke; and after some time he laid down across from her.

…It had been so long, since last he got to watch her sleep. His gaze softened. He could not rid his mind of the look she'd had in her eyes. If he hadn't come back, would she really just have given up like that?

The flickering light of her shadow danced upon the walls behind them, betraying her stillness. Without thinking, he reached over and brushed the few strands of hair away from her face.

"Please don't give up," he whispered.

His eyes shut. But when the morning light caused them to stir and open again, she had not moved an inch.

"Shit."


	4. Chapter 4

The snow was falling in steady sheets now. The thick flakes blanketed anything and everything around them, working well to cover the band of corpses that littered the ground. Eight there had been. Young, desperate, and inexperienced. The last of them gaped vacantly at the sky, unblinking, as the snow covered his eyes. He couldn't have seen more than sixteen winters. _His last the most cold and unforgiving_.  
Within the hour any trace of conflict would be buried and forgotten.

Breathing heavy, Sebastian turned away from the vibrant red splatters staining the pure white snow, a cold sweat working over his brow. He sheathed his dirk and wiped the warm trickle of blood from his lip, pausing to mutter a prayer for the departed into the silence. The words rang hollow and empty in his heart.

_...Maker, know their hearts_  
_Take from them a life of sorrow _  
_Lift them from a world of pain _  
_Judge them worthy of Your endless pride _

_Creator, judge them whole: _  
_Find them well within Your grace _  
_Touch them with fire that they be cleansed _  
_Tell them they have sung to Your approval _

_O Maker, hear my cry: _  
_Seat them by Your side in death _  
_Make them one within Your glory _  
_And let the world once more see Your favor _

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world _  
_And comfort is only Yours to give._

With purposeful strides he walked around to the other side of his mare, leather boots crunching and packing the thick, white powder beneath every step. The light dusting that had covered his saddle was swept away before he swung his armored leg over. The horse swished its mane and stamped its hooves. "We make for the nearest arm of the Minanter," he said, slinging his bow across his back. "The bandits here tend to camp away from the river, to elude guard patrols. We can avoid them if we keep to the waters edge."

Fenris nodded from beneath the hood of his cloak. The sharp knuckles of his steel gauntlets creaked as he mounted his own horse and held steady his reigns. The sound was near to deafening in the white forest. "We've lost a full day," the elf noted, his gaze far off. "And with the weather like this, who knows how much more we will lose."

Sebastian's eyes followed his. The branches of pine hung so heavy around them the ends had fallen limp and lifeless against the ground. Chunks of ice were clinging to the curtains of needles, and made the trees feel as though they were closing in around them. Squinting his eyes, he glanced up at the blotted gray sky. It could have been midday or dusk and he wouldn't have known. The weather had come upon them as sudden as the dead thieves at their feet, and it was not likely to improve. It seemed many forces were at work against them. "We'll ride hard until we've found shelter. This storm is not like to be the worst of our foes. It will pass." His gloved hands reached back to secure the buckskin straps of their equipment in place. He wished he felt as confident as he sounded. In truth, Sebastain had never seen so much snow in the Free Marches.

"It is not the storm that worries me." Fenris paused to meet his gaze. "It is Anders."

He felt the muscles of his jaw tighten as he fixed his eyes on the road ahead of them. "Starkhaven's armies will not head my call until I solidify my place at the throne. But rest assured, if Kirkwall does not bring that abomination justice, I will."  
He whipped his reigns.

The Vimmark Mountains. It was the only part of their journey that should give them any trouble, until they reached Starkhaven. Sebastian knew the Marches well. The roads had changed little since his time at Kirkwall; but the bandits had grown in numbers, and the woods had grown colder. Even now he could feel the unrest lingering in the shadows around them as they weaved their way through the snow-covered pines. Ever so often he would see phantom faces flash in and out of sight amongst the trees, or hear faint cries carried along the wind. If sleep had not been eluding him every night, he might have believed he was going mad. How long, he wondered, before the ripples of destruction they left behind caught up to them again. How far would they spread? He pushed his thoughts aside. _Best not to think about Kirkwall._ All that mattered was seeing that murderer pay for his crimes. He owed the dead that much.

Several hours passed in silence. The chill of the wind whipped at his face, but Sebastian paid it no mind. After some time, what little daylight they had began to fade, and muted hues of magenta were peaking through the treetops. They rode as long as they could before he spotted a nice secluded spot to set up camp for the night. He turned to face his elven companion as he quickly dismounted. "We have little light left, and we best make good use of it. Tie up the horses, and I'll see to the firewood."

"Consider it done." Fenris gave a nod in his direction as he followed suit.

Sebastian took the initiative to scout the perimeter. They had chosen a spot against a thick row of trees with a generous amount of slated rock for shelter and ample room for a small fire. The site was hidden well amidst the white foliage. His eyes scanned the forest floor for anything to get a fire going. Most of it was soaked pine. The rocks began to thicken the further he wandered, with boulders jutting up from the ground like stone fingers. Ducking beneath the branch of a tree, he came upon a small alcove, where a bundle of dry sticks and logs were tucked neatly against the corner.

_Bandits, or a rogue traveler perhaps..._ He searched the grounds for footprints, one hand resting on the hilt of his dirk. There was no uneven snow, no marks from a fire pit. Nothing. His eyes peered through the darkness as the wind moaned low through the hollow – long abandoned. Cold and empty. He gathered what he could and headed back.

Within minutes their flames were holding strong against the crisp cold air. The bits of dry wood crackled as the two of them collected the rest of their gear and finished setting up camp just moments before the sun disappeared. Nightfall came swiftly. They sat quietly in the dim light, and Sebastian peered down at the small ration of nuts and berries in his gloved hand. If tomorrow had better luck, he decided he could try to find some game to hunt out here.

"I never thought I'd say it, but some cheap mead and stale bread sounds incredibly appetizing right about now."

Sebastian looked up at Fenris and attempted a smirk. "The Hanged Man does have a strange allure to it." He paused when a small shiver crept up his spine, and drew his fur-lined hood tight around him. "But only to desperate men."

"No matter how desperate I become," Fenris stretched his hands out towards the flickering campfire. "I am never eating the 'mystery soup' ever again."

_I doubt we'll ever get the chance again_. Sebastian's smile slowly faded when the thought struck him. He would have given anything in that moment to be back in that decrepit tavern, of all places. If he closed his eyes, he could still conjure the smells – the salt, sweat, and sulfur of sailors and miners, the pungent stench of ale, and the rotting wooden planks of the floorboards. He could hear Varric's laughter and Isabella's drunken curses; still see the glow of the fire, and Hawke's shy smile… The Hanged Man had been his bittersweet sanctuary.  
But now it was one more thing left behind. One more memory he'd sooner forget. If he could.

"You haven't touched your berries."

Sebastian blinked, dropping his gaze to his hands again. "No," he chuckled, "I haven't. Perhaps I left my appetite back in Kirkwall as well." He paused to chide himself for his lingering thoughts. "I…never thanked you. For helping me. Showing up when you did. I admit I did not expect anyone to follow."

His elven comrade studied him from across the fire. "No thanks necessary. Though I can't say I'm surprised it's slipped your mind, as little as you've spoken. You've hardly said a word since I found you."

Sebastian looked up to meet his gaze. When neither looked away Fenris continued.

"While you are due your grief, I think it is important that you make your intentions clear before we continue tomorrow."

_Blunt as ever_, he thought, his brows furrowing. _What more needed saying?_ "When I left, I made my intentions perfectly clear…"

"When you left you threatened to level Kirkwall with your fury," Fenris said, pinning him with his gaze. "And while I'm sure your words were merely hollow symptoms of your loss, if I am to follow you, I need to know your plans."

"I…" Sebastian sighed, running his hand over his face and through his hair. The heat and smoke from the fire was irritating his eyes, and fatigue was beginning to wear on him. "I appreciate your help, Fenris. Truly, I do. I just…need some time. To think about everything." He turned to lay out his bedroll. After a moment he glanced back. "We'll talk tomorrow."

Fenris' dark eyes passed back and forth between his. "Very well. We will speak whenever you're ready." He reclined against the rock at his back. "But don't wait too long about it."

The silence between them grew, and Sebastian conceded to curl up beside the glowing flames. His eyes slid closed, and he focused on the sounds and smells around him. There was a time when the whispers of his faith had been enough to quiet his doubts and his fears – a time when he felt the Maker's presence with him always, and Andraste's hand guiding him. But he felt nothing now. Nothing except the wind biting at the exposed skin of his cheeks, and the bitter cold seeping through his veins. A distant howl drifted on the wind. The forest around him erupted in beams of light, and the howls turned to screams as he watched the walls of the Chantry disintegrate before his eyes. Flames, and the pungent scent of blood and decay flooded his mind as he knelt amidst the smoldering rubble of Kirkwall's sacred ground and cradled the body of the Grand Cleric in his arms. He wept, for her and for the innocent men, women, and children taken away in the wake of the destruction and madness that had befallen the city. A hand at his shoulder brought his gaze down into Elthina's gray, dead eyes as she whispered to him… "_Sebastian_… _You cannot sleep. You must wake up… Please wake me up." _The rotted appendages squeezed tight around his skin, causing him to stare down in panic. Only this time it was Hawke in his arms, lifeless, gazing up at the sky beneath the scarlet sunburst mark on her forehead. _"No,"_ he cried, holding her small limp frame in his arms and crushing her to his chest. _"Maker, No!" _

Sebastian shot up instantly. Very slowly, his terror and confusion was replaced with a growing awareness as he took in his surroundings. Breathing deeply, he willed his racing heart to calm down. The campfire had dwindled somewhat, and Fenris was sleeping soundly across from him. It felt as though only seconds had passed since closing his eyes. _Another night lost to nightmares._ He ran a hand over his face and leaned forward to feed the dying flames. The snow had stopped sometime during the night. Once again, darkness and silence were his only companions. In a practiced haze he closed his eyes in another empty attempt to find some semblance of comfort.

Doubt was not new to him. They were old friends, in fact. Since joining the Chantry, his faith had been tested and tempted on countless occasions. Once you find it, however, faith is a difficult thing to truly lose. Even in the worst darkness it waits, somewhere in the back of your mind - like a soothing voice of strength and reason beckoning you to find it again. Many times it faltered when it was new and weak, but he felt it falter strongest when his family had died... And again when he met Hawke. Several moments passed by, and he gazed up at the few stars daring to peak through the holes in the clouds. Was he losing it again? When he closed his eyes, all he felt was unrest – a sense of foreboding that plagued him, kept him from sleep, and deprived him of hunger. Now it was testing his convictions like nothing before. His path had been so clear when he left. But after what Fenris had first told him, about the fate that had befallen Kirkwall...

The image of Hawke laying pale and silent in his arms came unbidden to his mind and he shook his head to clear the thought. He never once asked about their companions. Never considered what transpired after the Chantry. He was so absorbed in getting to Starkhaven, in finding Anders... Guilt coiled around his throat like a snake. What would happen to the rest of his friends when the world started to fall apart? To Hawke? And if he found Anders, if he took back his throne, what will he do to help?

His thoughts carried him 'til dawn. When the red sun rose, Starkhaven seemed worlds away.

* * *

Dawn… It was always discolored in the Fade.

She was back in Lothering. The imagined warmth of the fire licked gently across her back as she stared out the window from her home, watching the gentle flutter of snowfall with distant eyes. Winter was, to most Ferelden's, a dreaded time of year. The frozen ground, and the slush that followed in the early months left little to be desired for crops or for travel. Still, it held some of her favorite memories.

The breath that passed her lips fogged the windowpane. Every now and then the tip of her nose would graze the frosted glass, but the sensation that should have followed was… dimmed. Muted. Such details were always noticeable in the Fade. It was as though you were always halfway inside.

That was the first thing her father had taught her to notice.

The sound of distant laughter tore her from her musings. She turned her head to study the familiar features of her childhood home. It was all exactly as she remembered – the dirt floors, the stone fireplace, the crooked beams supporting the thatched roof above. Though her family had traveled on more than one occasion, this place had given them shelter for most of her life. Behind her was the room she had shared with her siblings. The rustic décor was still the same – trinkets and treasures from their travels lined uneven shelves of Ferelden pine. Her mother always liked to decorate. It occurred to her then that she had not dreamt of Ferelden in a long time.  
Not since her mother died.

Again the laughter shook her mind awake, and the resounding _thump thump thump_ of approaching feet halted at the doorway.

"Can we do it now papa? Can we?" Though muffled, she could easily make out Carver's voice.

The front door opened and Malcolm Hawke stepped inside, holding the catch of the morning. He looked young despite the wrinkles of crows feet at his eyes as he smiled down at the twins. They were no more than ten years old. Carver was bouncing ecstatically with a bow in his hand while Bethany hovered behind them, clinging to the fabric of their father's pants.

"I don't want to see," she muttered quietly.

"You're the one who wanted to go," he teased, puffing out his chest in pride. "And you saw me get _both_ rabbits. I'm gonna be the best hunter in all Ferelden!"

"A good hunter must also know when to keep quiet," her father laughed. His voice had hushed to above a whisper. "Your mother is still sleeping. Now put your bow away before you help. Bethany, you go wash up before breakfast," he smiled gently, leaning to pat her head. "You don't have to watch. You can help me cut the vegetables."

Bethany beamed up at him before tiptoeing off to get ready. Carver bounded after her, tumbling into their room with a loud _thud_.

Malcolm sighed and shook his head, setting the rabbits aside in the kitchen before turning towards the window. "How are you feeling sweetheart?"

She allowed herself the solace of reciting the answer, just to hear his voice. "Better, papa."

"That's good." He leaned down beside her to feel her forehead. The touch was like a breath of pure air against her skin. "Can't have you sick for your name day tomorrow."

She smiled back at him, studying the green in his eyes and the stubble on his face. His winter robes were made with thick wool, and she remembered being younger, and stealing them nearly every chance she got. She would run around shouting how she was going to be the greatest mage that ever lived, and would mimic spell-casting at her brother and sister before shooting fake lightning bolts at invisible enemies. Malcolm Hawke would always play along, pretending to be a giant ogre or a terrifying dragon. …Her memories of her father were too few.

"Since you're feeling better, I have an early present for you," he said. His ethereal form disappeared into the other room just long enough for her to get a hold of herself.

_I shouldn't be here._ She cast her eyes out the foggy window one final time, just as her father reemerged, holding a small carved wooden staff in his hands. _"You will be thirteen tomorrow,"_ he said, his voice fading to an echo. _"Normally I would have waited a little longer to give you your first staff, but you've passed all your tests so well..." _he chuckled. _"Looks like I'll have to teach you more tomorrow. You've earned it. I am very proud of you sweetheart."_

A wistful smile fell over her lips as the memory began to disappear around her. That had been the happiest moment of her life, and the best name day she'd ever had. The memories danced in and out of sight as she reached within herself to wake from her dreams. It felt like only a matter of minutes, but she knew there was no telling how much time had passed in the real world. She also knew that she had lingered longer than usual. These were shadows of a life she would never see again. She needed to remember that, and get a hold on herself.

"_Shadows are but dark reflections of truth_," a voice whispered.

Hawke spun around. The images of her mother and father, of Carver, Bethany, and their Lothering home turned to nothingness around her. She was floating, standing upon an endless sea of oblivion. Staring back at her from only a small distance away was a desire demon. The purple flames of its hair licked at the tips of its curled horns, and its sharp teeth smiled at her as it slowly approached.

"_This truth can be yours. You need only reach out and grasp it,"_ it said, sliding its claws over its body.

Hawke reached for her staff, but the tips of her fingers merely brushed the air behind her. _What?_ Where was her staff? Only a moment ago it had been there… hadn't it? She turned narrowed eyes towards the creature. "I grow weary of the same questions night after night. Can't you demons get a little more creative?"

"_But you do grow weary. Don't you. Happiness eludes you, and so you have been seeking it here, in your dreams. In your memories."_

Hawke stretched out a hand towards the demon as it began circling her. Electric strands of magic began to flow along her fingertips. "I'm perfectly fine feeling weary and nostalgic on my own, thanks. No need to offer the same predictable, _empty_ promises. It won't _work_ on me." The blast of electricity radiated from her like a blinding pulse, exploding on the demon's chest before slowly dissipating.

It smiled back at her, unharmed. _"Oh, but you want it to work. I can feel how badly you want it."_

Hawke's eyes widened as it approached. _Why can't I hurt it?_

"_Because you know I can give you what you want. You simply worry it will be fleeting, and your wish will feel tainted. Empty."_ It stopped behind her, whispering in her ear. _"All life is fleeting. Your desires would become as real as the painful reality you are living now. Only it will be so much sweeter. You deserve this as much as you want it. You deserve to feel happy again."_

"Stop it!" She sent another blast of magic behind her. It vanished over the distant horizon.

She was alone. And it was so quiet.

The tears flowed freely, and Hawke crumpled to the ground as a scream of agony tore through her throat. "Please," she whispered out into the void. "Wake up."


End file.
